


Candlemass

by Patronoftheravens



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Disdif, M/M, Slow Burn, Tardif is an asshole, Wound Tending, dungeoncrawling, hatefucking, i mean all of that at some point we're just getting started, kind of enemies to lovers?, lots of combat, really slow burn, yes that's the ship name i'm going with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 16:12:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patronoftheravens/pseuds/Patronoftheravens
Summary: Listen, you all know I'm bad at summaries. This is the long fic you've all been waiting for. And you're still gonna wait bc I suck at updates. This is in essence, a long form Darkest Dungeon fic where Dismas and Tardif end up becoming lovers. I've been planning it for a while but I suck at writing things consistently.





	Candlemass

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to yell at me to update faster, my tumblr is greetingsadventurer and there if you really want to yell at me (or talk hcs) you can ask for my discord.

The stagecoach rattles along what would Tardif would be hard pressed to call a ‘road’. In fact, it’s barely even a footpath. He huffs, keeps his arms folded tight across his chest. There are three others with him, all there when he got on; A woman wrapped in more cloth than a textile mill, a lawman, his faithful hound ever at his side, or laying at his feet in this case, and a mountain of a man wearing a golden mask on his face and plate over his chest, at his side an executioner’s sword. Tardif scoffs. Damn thing is too unwieldy to be a proper weapon. At most it’s just a deterrent. 

No one makes any conversation the whole way to the hamlet. Tardif can only assume they’ve all been drawn here by the promise of treasure. He’s read the contract. Anything he finds is his (aside from a bit of a tax from the owner of the lands). His only job is to follow this Lord Colevine’s orders and not pick fights with the other...recruits. The military term doesn’t sit well with him but the wealth is too tempting to say no. Once the stagecoach clatters to a halt, their driver gets off and opens the door. It’s night, late too. Their driver gestures to the hamlet. Before he can start speaking, Tardif pushes his way out of the cramped space, past the driver. He cares not what the man has to say. He’ll figure it out on his own time. 

The town feels diseased. Or depressed. Both. Like a sick dog, mangy and flea bitten, needing to be put down. It doesn’t feel dangerous. Yet. The lights in the tavern are still on. He could use a drink. The door opens with a squeal, hinges in need of oiling, and the floorboards howl in equal measure in protest of his heavy hobnail boots. The barkeep eyes him warily. It’s the mask. To be fair, it’s his whole presence: mask, spiked helm, cowl, scale mail. All of it does a pretty decent job of sending a threatening message.

Just like the door and floorboards, the bar stool creaks under his weight. A disdainful snort tugs free from the back of his throat. Whatever. The barkeep is a moustached man with eyes under heavyset brows. He locks eyes with the voids in Tardif’s mask. Tardif doesn’t flinch.

“You’re new ‘round here, aren’t you?”

“Mmhm. Came in just five minutes ago. Could use a drink.”

“Can you pay?”

“How much?”

“Two pence a stein.”

“Who can’t pay that?” Tardif huffs, letting two coins click onto the bar.

“Be surprised,” the barkeep takes the coin from the bar, pockets it, “Anythin’ else?”

“Take it your cook’s gone ta bed?”

“Bread ‘n cheese’ll run ya back sixpence.”

“Reasonable.” Another coin.

A few rounds of ale later and he’s staring into his drink like it owes him money. The bottom of his stein stares back at him, judging. He huffs, upends the damn thing on the bar, pulls his cowl up to his nose. That’s enough booze for tonight. 

“You lot’ll be in the bunkhouse down the road. The squat buildin’ over there. Can’t miss it.”

“Room’s free then? I’ll be damned,” he stands, turns out the door towards the bunkhouse.

Just as the barkeep said, it is a squat little ramshackle thing. Certainly a roof over his head isn’t anything to scoff at (and a free roof at that). He opens the door slowly and takes stock of his accommodations. Eight bunks out of twelve filled, and one of them is still empty towards the wall. He tosses his pack under it unceremoniously, steps out of his boots. No one stirs. It really must be late. 

As soon as he thinks this, the church bell chimes once off of its steeple. One in the morning? Hm. Unfortunate. He takes his helmet off and the gauntlets, leaves the cowl and gambeson on. No one here has a reason to  _ not  _ stick a knife in his back. Might as well. He closes his eyes and drifts into a restless sleep.

He rises the latest the next morning and checks his things. Nothing is missing. For now, he leaves his hatchet in its travel spot along his back. He doesn't need it for right now. There isn't anyone else in the bunkhouse. He doesn't even see the three companions he came with. They must be out exploring the hamlet. He considers taking his breakfast here. There is some hardtack in his bag still. No. It will keep for some time yet. His helm and mask once more rest upon his head, concealing himself behind a layer of cloth and steel and his boots fit comfortably to his feet. This will do. This will do nicely. He's just another stranger to a group of strangers already here. 

He steps out of the bunkhouse. The sun is about midday, a bit before afternoon. It's a bit nippy outside, enough to make Tardif consider the coming winter. It shouldn't be too bad. Besides, he's weathered worse. He makes his way about the hamlet. It really is nothing special. In total, he's guessing at most fifty people live there regularly, working the land and whatnot. Aside from that, there isn't too much to see. Certainly the church dominates the northern hillside but it's not like he'd actually set foot in there anytime soon. For now, he sets himself upon a stump a bit of a way from town and pulls his whetstone from his pack. It's a habit at this point, maintain equipment when he's nothing better to do. It sets his mind at ease. The steel is familiar to him in a town where nothing but the language is. 

He works the honing oil into the edge liberally then gently yet firmly drags the whetstone over its edges. The recurve is a problem for sharpening, but he's had this piece for a quite a time, more than enough time to get used to the blade's curve and other idiosyncrasies. As he works, he hears soft footsteps on the fallen leaves on his right side, the blind side. He pauses in his work, stopping the grate of whetstone against steel that he might hear better.

"Who's there?" 

"Just another recruit," the voice that answers is soft, friendly, if a bit worn and tired. Tardif turns to face it with a huff. It belongs to a...rather scruffy looking man if he's being honest. He's thin, average height, black hair greying at the temples, and drawn about his body is a grey, fur mantled coat. At one point it might have been something of value but now? Now it's no more than an expensive looking rag. The man holds up his hands, gloved in red. An interesting choice, it pricks something in the back of Tardif's memory, pricks a point where anger dwells "Not here to hurt you."

"Hmph, and wha're ya here for then?" He can't place his face given that it's covered by a neckerchief, also red.

"Just to introduce myself. Suppose we should know each other if we're to be out together. I'm Dismas."

Dismas. Dismas... _ Dismas _ . It clicks. Wanted posters bearing his face flood back. A snarl starts in the back of Tardif's throat. He turns his head to glower at him, “Dismas as in th’ thief that has a five hundred pound bounty on his head for thievery, banditry ‘n th’ like?”

Dismas takes a step back and Tardif watches his hand twitch towards the flintlock at his belt, “Yeah. Take it we’re not on friendly terms?”

Tardif stands, takes three purposeful strides to close the distance. He doesn’t exactly tower over Dismas but he stands a good few inches over him. Dismas makes to flee but Tardif’s hand already grips the fur mantle in his coat, “D’ya know how much time, how much energy, how much damn  _ money  _ ya’v cost me tryin’ ta  _ kill  _ your scrawny ass? ‘n now some  _ fecker  _ up above decides ta deliver ya to me on a silver platter ‘n I’m under contract ta not gut ya where ya stand?” He scoffs, drops Dismas roughly, “Feck off, highwayman. Ain’t interested ‘n makin’ your acquaintance.”

There’s silence, then footsteps leaving. Tardif turns back to his hatchet, his rage dissolving with each pass of the whetstone, each scrape dragging out into the cold autumn air.


End file.
